The Silent Spectre
by Obsidian Dagger
Summary: Seventeen year old Harry Potter is abducted, beaten, and thrown back in time with wounds that can't be healed. Hiding in the maze of underworld secret passages, he tries to remain hidden while he researches how to heal himself, and how to get home. Distur
1. Prologue

**Title:** The Silent Spectre

**Summary:** Harry Potter was abducted in his seventeenth year, cursed, and thrown viciously back in time with numerous wounds that can't be healed. Terrified of being seen in the time of his parents, he attempts to stay hidden in Hogwarts underground secret passages, but not even the famous Potter can be continuously hidden from a school full of mischievous students, and every once in a while he's spotted. His bloody appearance and silent ways give him a ghostly name.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or any other characters, and I make no profit in the creation of this story.

* * *

When Harry Potter was seventeen years old, he was abducted from Hogwarts by a man named Adenlin Rolingat while out on the Quidditch Pitch after hours in a classic stupid stunt that he was famous for, and in a classic maneuver he was snatched quickly and silently from the safety of the school grounds.

Not to say that he didn't put up a horrendous fight, but a quick and effortless silencing spell from Rolingat rendered him silent, and therefore spell-less.

He nearly made up for it with his fists, but he was simply no match for a man twice his size and armed with two wands, and while he was silenced.

Harry fought ruthlessly, kicking, biting, punching, and thrashing wildly, fiercely, and desperately, garnering injuries of his own. Several bleeding scraped adorned his body, bruised and cut, he bled slowly but freely. He was rendered unconscious after fighting for nearly thirty minutes, and taken to a small castle in the midst of an icy field in Scotland, where he was held prisoner for several days.

During this miserable time, he was cursed only once in his entire stay, a spell that he'd never heard of. And he wouldn't have, as Rolingat had invented it himself, a mix between a spell and a potion that made wounds impossible to heal. So Harry spent three miserable days in an old, freezing dungeon without food or water, while he bled freely and without respite.

Every four hours or so, Rolingat would enter his cell with a potion that he periodically forced down Harry's throat. He'd had enough of it over his seven years at Hogwarts to recognize one of the most potent blood-replenishing potions, which kept him from bleeding to death.

So Harry ached and bled for three days, until one day Rolingat, with his shoulder-length reddish hair, mustache, and enormous frame, and slipped a silver chain around his neck. On the chain was a smallish vial that slid into Harry's bloodied shirt, hiding it from view, a vial that was filled with hundreds of little tiny pellets. Rolingat spoke for the first time and explained them.

"These are dehydrated blood-pellets." He had said, his voice deep and husky and all too normal. "Take one every hour, and it will keep your blood levels up until you learn to make the blood-replenishing potion."

Harry, still silenced, merely stared, his mouth closed and his eyes wide, his mind whirring rapidly at just how this man did _not_ fit the criteria of a murderous fiend, in the fact that he was giving him this.

And then Rolingat raised his wand, and Harry stiffened instinctively, expecting the worst but not expecting it either. With a mere flick of the wand and a spell that Harry didn't understand, the huge man slid a bit of wood into Harry's pocket just as the world slid away from him, leaving him with his wand in his pocket, a body covered in aches and blood, and a chain full of blood-pellets.

When the world rematerialized, he found himself mute, bloodied, and in front of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry just as dinner appeared on the plates.

Grateful beyond imagination, he dragged himself up the stairs to the entrance hall, stumbling and staggering and swaying…and eventually ending up on his belly, dragging himself weakly along, leaving bloody streaks on the stone.

He realized as he managed to face the doors to the Great Hall that it was rather strange that he felt so weak, such as his wounds had long ago stopped hurting him, and he'd been bleeding for three days without feeling this weak.

Well then of course he felt quite stupid, and feeling along with weak and stiff fingers, he managed to pop open the lid to the tiny glass vial and tip three tiny pellets into his mouth, where they instantly melted.

Revitalized, he staggered weakly to his feet and taking a deep breath, slid the door open to the Great Hall.

Oddly, nobody seemed to notice him at first, hidden in the long shadows from the dying sunlight shining in the windows as he was. He blearily stared for a moment around, searching vaguely for his two best friends, knowing that they had to be worried for him. But there was no boy with red hair at Gryffindor table; the only redhead was a girl about Harry's age that he didn't recognize. And there was no girl with brown bushy hair, either. In fact, he thought as he swept his gaze again over the table, he recognized nobody sitting there. The girl did look familiar, but he was sure he'd never seen that particular shade of dark red before, or that striking color green of her eyes…

Tearing his bleary mind from the problem, he searched with his eyes the staff table, recognizing Dumbledore, McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, and Vector. Other than that, however, no face jumped out at him, and searching a second time, Harry realized that the faces he _did_ know were different…strange somehow. Feeling befuddled and hungry, he stepped quietly forward, opening his mouth to speak and shutting it again when no sound emerged.

In fact, no sound at all reigned in the Great Hall, silent as the grave. Every single person was staring at him with shocked and horrified eyes, which he understood, he supposed, to some extent. However, this was ridiculous, he'd thought that with his adventures every year that the school, especially Dumbledore, would be rather used to things like this…for Dumbledore was just as flabbergasted as everyone else, sitting with a rather stunned look on his face.

Frowning, Harry stepped forward between the tables of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, growing more bewildered when several students screamed in terror and stumbled and clawed their way away from him. Well, perhaps he did look like something from a horror movie, but this was ridiculous, surely someone would recognize him?

He dragged his feet slowly, trailing blood with each step. Midway past the terrified tables, he stretched one hand out in silent entreaty, mouthing the words that he knew would help them, even if they couldn't be said.

Nothing. The Headmaster rose to his feet, looking rather scared, and confused, and ill, raising his wand and pointing it straight at Harry.

"Who are you?" He said, his voice reverberating in the silent room. Harry mouthed his name, mute. Confusion was strong, particularly since they didn't seem to recognize him. And with a jolt, Harry realized that he didn't recognize any student in the entire hall, nor most of the teachers either.

Bewildered and beginning to be frightened, he stared bleakly around himself, searching for something…anything.

And he found it, silent, expressionless, fearless. A boy at the Slytherin table, sitting still in his seat with his hands folded loosely over his lap, his dark hair and eyes jumping out at Harry from a blurred sea of indistinct faces.

Faltering then, Harry turned and dragged himself forward, towards the fierce, dark eyes that bored into his own cloudy green. The entire hall was silent, save for the panicked rustling of the students as they scrambled away from him, terror written in their faces…in their very beings.

Even the Slytherins backed rapidly away as he slid by, and no one was willing to help him. Why? He wondered. Why were they doing this?

But the one didn't. He stood, his hands by his side, staring down at Harry from his impressive height when he stopped beside him, smaller and slighter than the other. Once more he mouthed a question, stretching out a hand but not touching him…afraid, although he wasn't sure why, to get blood on the immaculate black robes.

Who are you? He asked silently. What's going on? But the boy only furrowed his brow in confusion, frowning. Harry patiently repeated himself, his hand stretched out about an inch from the smooth black robes, not touching, not moving, hovering silently until something pierced his fuzzy, whirling mind.

Nothing did, and Harry blankly lowered his fingers, staring up at the taller boy, confused and beginning to get rather scared. The entire thing was surreal, waveringly unreal to him.

Looking around in bewilderment, Harry spotted a door about fifty feet in front of him, seeming to beckon to him. Forgetting completely about the other boy, he concentrated on putting one silent foot in front of the other, making his slow, careful way towards the door. He should have been surprised, he really should have, that the Headmaster simply let him go, but he was dazed and his mind was hazy, and he could only think of going through that door and to whatever lay beyond. He left a trail of blood behind him from his soaked, sodden robes that hung on him limply.

The door opened quietly at the mere touch of his fingers, and he slid himself through it, finding himself in the dungeons a moment later. He blearily remembered a door with a Parseltongue password, and hazily guided his feet towards it, staring blearily at the snake when he found it, and then hissing the password to open it. He found himself in a series of passages under the school, built by Slytherin himself, which no person had ever found before him. He dragged himself to a spacious room, and collapsed on the rug. He had the bare presence of mind to swallow several pellets, about seven, and fall asleep instantly, bleeding slowly, continuously, and freely onto the rich green rug, creating a bloodstain that he would find twenty years into the future.

* * *

**A/N:** So, what do you think? I know it's really strange, but I was hoping it's kind of different. If you guys like it, I would really like to update it again. I'll probably update it soon anyways, because often stories don't get reviews until the third chapter or so. Harry won't be a student here, and no, this will not be slash. I have nothing against it, but this will be a friendship fic with Harry and Severus. 


	2. Mosaic

**Title:** The Silent Spectre

**Summary:** The reactions in the Hall after Harry left, and the next morning.

**Disclaimer:** Really, now. Don't be daft. No characters were hurt in the making of this production, and will be returned…er…bloodless and injury-less to the rightful owner, Mrs. Rowling.

* * *

The Great Hall was in an uproar. Two Gryffindor seventh year boys were shouting loudly over the sound of shakily chattering Ravenclaws, sobbing Hufflepuffs, and the low murmuring of the Slytherins, as well as the shouting of their own house. It took Headmaster Dumbledore three bangs with his wand and a purple sparkler to restore order. 

"Now," He said when silence fell. "There is no need to worry at the moment, we can assure you that the wards would not have let this…person in if they meant us harm in any way. It looked to me that an injured and dazed boy came in and didn't realize what was happening. Mr. Snape…did he try to communicate with you?" Snape paused for a split second, then answered.

"Yes, sir. I don't think he can speak, but he was mouthing words."

"And were you able to comprehend them?"

"A few, sir. He said the same thing twice, I think, but the only part I got was 'what's going on'".

"Very well, Mr. Snape. Thank you. Professors! We must find this young man at once, he is bleeding from many wounds and will not last the night. Fawkes! See if you can sense him…no? Well, Prefects, Head Boy…yes, Mr. Potter, that's you, and Head Girl, thank you Miss Evans, please join us. Slytherin Prefects, Mr. Snape and Miss Ludwig take the dungeons with Professor Dominick, Miss Releli and Mr. Brown of Ravenclaw, take Ravenclaw grounds with Professor Flitwick, Mr. Grone, please follow Professor Sprout with Miss Buld to Hufflepuff territory, and Mr. Lupin, Miss Legan, take Gryffindor tower, with Mr. Potter. Miss Evans, take the third floor, please. Professor McGonagall, take fourth and fifth, I'll take first and second, Hagrid, please search the grounds. Professor Vector, the Astronomy Tower and the stairs, Fawkes, if you could send a message to Professor Lubanie in her Divination Tower, tell her to search thoroughly…"

So the search began, with the Slytherins moving towards the door that the boy just went through. Severus kept his head down, staring at the bloody streaks on the stone and following their direction. Amelia Ludwig walked just behind him, beside the Slytherin Head of House. He opened the door and moved through, drawing his wand and lighting it to see the streaks of blood. He followed them down one staircase and down another dimly lit corridor…before they suddenly veered towards the wall and utterly vanished.

"What?" He muttered quietly.

"What is it?" Dominick asked.

"They're gone." Snape said. Dominick came up beside him, examining in the light of the wand the bloody streaks that stopped abruptly at the wall. From behind them, Amelia gave a shocked little cry, making them both turn. She was pointing at the wall, where a carving of a snake adorned a stone, and where a smallish, bloody handprint marked the wall.

When the search parties returned in the morning, exhausted and downtrodden, they were each forced to say that they'd seen neither hide nor hair of the dark, bloody boy.

"I did find sumthin, Perfessor Dumbledore." Hagrid said. "Na much, just some bloody streaks on the steps ou' front."

"Yes, I saw those too. Thank you, Hagrid." Dumbledore said tiredly. "Unfortunately, I don't think the boy would have lived through the night, so step up the search to find his body."

"Oh, Albus…" McGonagall murmured. "That poor, poor child…"

* * *

When Harry woke groggily six hours later, he realized with disgust that his clothes were absolutely coated in cooling blood, and on the rich green rug in front of him was a stain that looked rather familiar, and it hit him with the force of a tidal wave that he'd been sent back in time…creating the past as he would find it in the future. 

Twenty years forward in time the stain would be faded, musty, but still dark, still there. Disgusted, Harry turned away, stripping out of his robes and examining the oozing wounds. His head was clearer now, and he was relieved to feel his mind whirling; planning and thinking and trying to figure out what to do. He simply couldn't be a student…he looked too much like James Potter, and he was sure that Professor Snape or Lupin would have mentioned a Potter look-a-like in James Potter's seventh year…and that last thing he wanted to do was create a paradox.

He also needed to figure out how to counteract the spell on him that prevented his wounds from healing, but before that he had to make enough blood replenishing potions to last him quite a while. Eventually, however, he had to find a way home.

Since he was reasonably awake and aware, he decided to explore the maze of underground passages. He'd never been able to do so in the future as there was never enough time.

To his disappointment there was no trace of Salazar Slytherin himself, no scraps of paper or any books that mentioned him. There was one room in the entire maze that had even the barest furnishings, the one he'd collapsed it. Besides the old, faded, richly padded rug, there was a small, plain bed as well as a wardrobe. Both bed and wardrobe were made of a soft, sanded, cream-colored wood with a swirling grain. The bed was immaculately made, if dusty, with white linen sheets and a light, soft sea-foam green blanket. Inside the wardrobe was only the poll to hang clothing on, other than that it was empty. No paintings hung on the walls, nor was the bed a four-poster, just a plain, single-person sized bed. The entire effect was impersonal and calming.

Outside there were mazes and mazes of dark, shadowy corridors, with only the occasional old torch on the wall that flared feebly to life when he approached and died again after he passed. He came to only the occasional room, empty, covered in dust, and smelling musty. To his surprise, the only door in the entire place was the one to the furnished room, and therefore the only one that had preserving charms on it. In the future each room was equipped with a plain wood door, but in the past the only remains was a few splinters on the floor, an old iron handle, and piles and piles of dust.

Finally what seemed like years later, to Harry at least, he found a brightly lit room made entirely of black stone. The lighting was a bright, eerie white, and the effect was slightly chilling. There was no crackle from the torches on the walls, only a dead and ominous silence. On the ground, however, he found many hundred tiny tiles, multi-colored and glittering in the firelight. Stepping forward, Harry started to examine the floor, tracing with his eyes the brightly colored lines. Most of the tile was black, he saw, but in one corner there was a picture of a fire. Frowning, Harry started there, studying the picture. The flames seemed to dance they looked so real, brightly orange and yellow and gold. There was a white line connecting the picture of the fire to the next one, the shape of ghostly trees in the distance on top of a darkened mountain. Bending down, Harry saw what looked like a large, treacherous body of water, brackish water and silt-covered shores.

The next picture depicted the same scene, but for the fact that three figures stood inside it, too small in the distance to see clearly, but definitely there. They stood side by side, still, silent, eerily closed. And the next picture showed another picture, this the same scene, with the brackish, darkened lake and twisted trees, but this time there was a pile of stones, seemingly set about strategically. With a jolt, Harry realized that he recognized something about this picture…the placing of the stones and the blackish lake, faraway, twisted trees…

Was this mosaic the story of Hogwarts itself?

Gradually, the pictures grew brighter, more cheerful. The twisted trees were destroyed, and new, brighter ones replaced them. The dark, ominous lake was cleared, and glittered blue-green in another picture. And in the very middle of the room was a picture of Hogwarts standing tall and proud atop a rounded hill, flags waving cheerfully, pupils moving about with the bright, cheerful lake glittering in the distance.

The next picture was much the same, but the flags were older now, not quite as cheerful. The sun didn't shine in this picture, and Hogwarts grounds were empty of students. The lake reflected the clouds above, but didn't glitter.

Slowly the pictures grew darker again. The castle came closer to the castle Harry knew now…tired, old and groaning. The trees that had been so youthful and bright grew older, taller, and stronger, and the lake continued to glitter in the sun for a while. But finally one picture changed the scene. The landscape was much the same…the lake shone blindingly, and the trees stretched high into the sky. But the castle was crumbled a little on the corner.

And suddenly, the pictures didn't shine so much…the lake sparkled less, and the trees grew more twisted. Picture by picture showed the castle crumbling, the lake growing brackish, the trees becoming twisted old men from the bright, healthy youths they once were. The castle crumbled to mere stones, and eventually vanished altogether. The picture remaining was exactly the same as the first one…dark, ominous, and evil.

With a little jolt in his stomach, Harry turned resolutely around, leaving the eerie room in favor of the twisting corridors, making his way carefully and following his footsteps in the dust, returning to the plainly furnished room that he would sleep in.

* * *

**A/N:** Well, thats the next chapter. I know its rather dull, but the next chapter will hopefully be out tomorrow and will be much more interesting. Unfortunately, this was an important chapter and I did not want to cloud it by adding a more interesting scene. Hope you like it anyways. 


	3. The Library

**Title:** The Silent Spectre

**Summary:** The nighttime…the only time Harry can come out of his hiding spot. Of course, since he doesn't have his invisibility cloak and he's not quite used to hiding yet, who spots him?

**Disclaimer:** No, you stupid. See that lady over there…the one with blond hair? Yeah, that's the great J.K Rowling. SHE owns, creates, and fixes these characters. I don't own them, never created them, and break them continuously.

* * *

Harry idled restlessly until nighttime, when he would be able to escape the oppressing silence of the dark passages, and find a library to learn how to make the blood-replenishing potion.

When it finally did arrive, Harry slunk quietly out of the dungeons and up the marble staircase, moving on a straight and silent course towards, not the library, but the infirmary.

Once inside, he creaked open the light blue student cabinet and swiftly snatched what he needed…rolls of bandages, wound cream, and several vials of the very blood-replenishing potion that he hoped to make. He needed them not only for backup in case his pellets ran out, but also as a reference as most potion books didn't have any inclination to put in color photographs, and he'd like to know exactly what color potion it was…and match it, before he tipped it down his throat. It was a dirty brown color, like sludge…and he knew it tasted to match.

He moved slowly down the corridors with the precious materials cradled in his arms and slipped into a bathroom down the hall. He stepped up to the mirror and received a shock.

His skin was pasty gray, and his cheeks were thin and gaunt. His eyes looked huge and dark, and shadows like bruises decorated the area underneath them. His hair, bloodied and stiff, stuck up in every direction, but instead of the naturally windswept look, it gave off a dismal and grim air of pain and suffering.

Grimacing, he quickly readied all the bandages, and then he began to strip out of his robes. He brought the bloody bundle over to the familiar laundry shoot and tossed down the entire thing save his wand, then turned on the shower quickly. He stepped in and began to scrub himself thoroughly, washing his hair again and again until every rust red particle was gone. Then he sat in the shower watching the water run in reddish rivulets over his body and down the drain.

He turned off the shower, toweled himself off swiftly and tossed the towel down the chute, and jumped out of the shower towards the mirror, swiftly slapping a small bandage to his cheek and wrapping the gashes on his arms and legs tightly. They wouldn't last long…not with endless bleeding…but for a few minutes he was able to relish the feeling of being clean.

His robes had been swiftly and without question washed by the elves, and he slid on his trousers and dress shirt, and then the robes themselves. Looking into the mirror he saw that already blood was seeping through his makeshift dressings, bringing out his grayish pallor and overall horrible appearance. With a sigh, he left the bathroom, striding away with rather renewed strength towards the library…more specifically; the restricted section.

Nearly six years of researching with Hermione, while often dull, gave him invaluable research skills, though not nearly level with Hermione herself. They were good all the same, however, and he put them to use now, pulling books with titles like _A Healer's Magic: From A to H,_ and _Contusions, Broken Bones, and other Grisly Injuries _off the shelves. He grabbed rolls of parchment from a nearby table, a short, nub quill, and a half-full bottle of green ink, and started taking notes on anything that caught his eye. He gave no notice to the blood steadily seeping onto the table and the parchment, although he made sure to keep the books clean. All through the night he sat, conjuring a cloth to mop himself up every hour and banishing it again. Somewhere along the way he found the recipe for the blood-replenishing potion, which was not easy at all but hopefully within range of a sixth year student. Checking the vial on the chain, he saw that it was still three-quarters full, so he scribbled down the steps and recipe for the potion and moved back to the curse upon him.

Blood was clotted by platelets. Well, he knew that from Muggle school, although he'd forgotten the name. They could often clot small cuts, but sometimes needed clotting factors for the larger ones. Platelets were formed, along with red and white blood cells, in the bone marrow.

So either the curse wasn't letting the platelets clot his blood, or the curse was in his marrow, and stopping the platelets from forming at all. Frowning, Harry checked his watch and slid the books away, standing and stretching a bit. Then he wandered through the shelves once more, sliding books out of their places with his wand and floating them to the table. _Bones: The Marrow, The Blood Cells, _and _Diseases of the Clotting System._

He scribbled endlessly, periodically checking his watch and paying special attention to where he dripped blood. He would have been horrified, he thought, if he hadn't had ages to get used to the constant ache, and the constant bleeding. The ache he didn't even feel anymore…it seemed like his nerves had gone numb.

As the library lightened with the rising sun, he quickly rolled the scrolls up and shoved them in his robes, waved his wand and watched as the books snapped closed and stacked on top of each other with a series of thumps. Another wave, and they floated towards Madam Pince's desk where they settled with a soft thump. He was about to return to the table to clean up the blood when he heard rapid footsteps outside, and he lunged behind a shelf just as the library door opened and Madam Pince herself walked through the door.

She strode towards her desk without a pause, but froze when she saw it.

_Oh, no._ Harry thought. _I should have put them all away…_

But there had been no time, he saw now, and he waited with bated breath as Madam Pince turned slowly around, her sharp, beady eyes scanning the library. Harry gulped as those eyes slowed, and then stopped…right on the table he'd been using.

She paled, but strode forward, bending to examine the blood on the tabletop. Heart thumping, Harry knew he might not have another chance, and pushed himself silently to his feet and leaped from out behind the shelf…but his robes whipped across the wood, making a faint swishing noise that was loud against the silence. Harry froze as Madam Pince spun around to stare straight into his eyes.

There was a pause, and then Madam Pince shrieked once, and Harry catapulted himself forward and charged around the doorframe, Pince's shrieks sounding in his ears.

Bounding down the corridors he heard shouting in the distance, and skidding around a corner he pounded on what seemed like a solid wall.

'Beledier, Beledier!' He thought, desperation fueling him. 'Let me in, come on…' And like a miracle, the wall faded, like an image, and he fell through, tapped the wall again and made it solid just as the voices came around the corner.

He jogged swiftly down the secret passage and came out behind a statue on the fourth floor, and moved at a sprint down three flights of back stairs and down into the dungeons and into his Slytherin haven.

* * *

"What was he doing, Albus?" Pince asked shakily. The teachers; Dumbledore, McGonagall, Dominick, Flitwick, Pince, and Madam Pomfrey were in the library, and Dumbledore's head was bent down over the table sprinkled with blood.

"He's still alive, Irma." Dumbledore said softly. "And if I were to venture a guess…he's looked for, and found, the recipe to the blood replenishing potion."

"But…" Minerva said. "How could he have possibly lasted the night?" Dumbledore straightened up.

"Poppy, have you checked you potions cupboard lately?" Pomfrey looked up curiously.

"Yes, when Mr. Lupin needed an anti-nausea potion on Tuesday, and everything was in order."

"What about yesterday?" Dumbledore asked.

"Well, no." Pomfrey said. "I can't go checking everything in the Infirmary, it's just too large."

"Not to worry, Poppy, but perhaps you could go to the Wing and check for me? Come straight back once you have."

"Very well, Albus, I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Thank you, Poppy." Dumbledore said, and turned back to the other teachers as Pomfrey clicked out of the Library in her heels. "Now," he said, bending towards the books that had been on Irma's desk. "I would say, by the titles of the books he brought down, that he was looking for something else, as well as the recipe for blood-replenishing. I suppose," Dumbledore's eyes glowed blue. "That the question is not why he's still alive…I think we will find out when Poppy returns…but _why he's still bleeding."_

"What do you mean?" Dominick asked, his deep voice floating through the room.

"Look at this." Dumbledore said, sliding a book out of the pile. "_The Diseases of the Clotting System…_and here," Dumbledore opened the book to a page that had one corner folded. "Hemophilia and the Von Willebrand disease."

"But Albus, any student could have folded that page." Dominick said.

"No, look here." Dumbledore replied, and the teachers bent down to examine the fold. Just along the crease was a tiny streak of rusty color. "I think if we were to examine these books carefully we'd find many clues like this…no matter how careful you are, if your bleeding like that boy is, you will get it everywhere you go."

"Do you think he's diseased?" Irma asked worriedly.

"No, I don't." Dumbledore replied, gazing at everything on the table…the blood, the books, and a small quill and nearly empty bottle of dark green ink. "If you look at this book here…" And Dumbledore opened another book, _The Bone's Marrow and the Strange Things About It, _"And read this passage. Ah, here's another bit of red, there, so he did read this. This is basic…unless he's taking medication fairly new to him that's causing this, he should know plenty about this disease and therefore know how to take care of it. However, I do not think he's taking medication, as he'd have to know more than this just to get the potion…or Muggle medicine in his hand. So I think that something happened to him, perhaps a curse of unfamiliar origins that is stopping his wounds from healing. What I don't understand…" Dumbledore paused, and then continued, "Is why he's so injured in the first place, and why he's here yet won't seek help."

There was no reply from the teachers, all grim faced and pondering the Headmaster's words.

"Albus!" Poppy exclaimed, hurrying into the Library. "My cupboards been raided…I'm missing several bandages and ointments, and all of my blood-replenishing potions…" Poppy stopped, just realizing what she was saying.

"Yes, my dear Poppy." Dumbledore said quietly. "But I think we can make an exception for this young man. Perhaps we can even help him, try to get him to trust us. Leave out some more supplies tonight, Poppy, and Dominick, leave the ingredients for the potion in the student supply cupboard tonight and take what is left out again in the morning. I think I'll leave some things here for him…perhaps a list of books…"

"Professor Dumbledore?" A voice asked at the door of the Library. The Professors turned to look at the speaker. It was James Potter, and beside him was Sirius Black. "I think you'd better look at this, sir."

"What is it, James?" Dumbledore asked, standing quickly. James shook his head and beckoned, and everyone but Pince, who stayed in the Library, followed the Head boy. They moved through the corridors, with Professor McGonagall asking the boys' questions. They were stubbornly silent, and both had rather ill looks on their faces.

"Here, sir." James said, his voice subdued sounding. He pointed at the plain stone wall.

There were bloody fist impressions, the curl of the fingers in the markings and the press of the palm clear…as if someone were pounding on the wall with their clenched fists.

"What was he doing?" McGonagall asked shrilly. If possible, James and Sirius looked even gloomier.

"Beledier." James said quietly, and the wall melted away. He raised his wand and lit it, illuminating the dark passage beyond…and the wand's light shone on something dark and shiny…two pools of black-red blood on the floor.

James felt sick. They all did.

* * *

**A/N:** Oh, wow. I absolutely loved this chapter, and I don't know why! It's just fascinating for me to write, and Dumbledore's character is so awesome to put on paper. Anyways, I know not a lot of action in this chapter, but at least we're getting somewhere, right? This story won't be overly long…perhaps fifteen chapters or so, maybe a few more or maybe a few less. I know this was kind of an awkward place to stop, but that's just where it ended. Hope you liked this chapter!

Oh, one more thing. This is a revised chapter…someone mentioned that Harry was mute, and I had him talking! Stupid me, now it's better, I hope. Thanks Phoenix 5.


	4. Severus Snape

**Title:** The Silent Spectre

**Summary:** A little too close for comfort. The next night Harry finds the gifts that the Hogwarts Professors left him.

**Disclaimer:** Do I have to keep doing this? It's getting _frightfully_ dull. I don't freaking own Harry Potter, got it? Gods, how many times must I repeat myself? My name is Jay…not Joanne.

* * *

Cautious from his near miss the night before, Harry felt a little jittery at returning to the library. He felt downright dread at finding his way towards the Potions Master's…Dominick was his name? Office and stealing the supplies he needed. However, it needed to be done…and the only way he could get healed and home was to end this curse…whatever it was. So up he went. His Slytherin haven was in the deepest bowels of the castle, and he needed to go up two endless flights of stairs to reach the Potion Master's office.

Perhaps he should go to the student cupboard first, to get the armadillo bile he would need, as well as the ground puffer fish scales. That was easy enough to do; the supply cupboard was in the Potions Classroom, which was never locked.

Grimacing, Harry wrapped his bloody hands around the cupboard handle and eased it open slowly, waiting for it to squeak. When it didn't he breathed a sigh of relief and opened it all the way.

What he saw gave him a horrible shock. There, in the middle of the shelf, were several shining bottles and packages. Under the foremost bottle was a piece of parchment that unfolded when he opened the cupboard door, and written in a bold, elegant script was the words:

Hope this is a sufficient amount of each ingredient. If you need more you can either come to me or write me a note. If you need a better book than the student one, there is one on my desk. Good luck, Professor J. Dominick.

It could be for anyone, Harry tried to consol himself. It was not necessarily for him. But he knew he was avoiding it…he didn't know how, but he knew that letter was written for him to read…and those ingredients were there for him to take.

But why? He wondered, backing away a step. Why are they giving me ingredients when they're in the middle of a war and don't know who I am? Are they tricking me?

He couldn't answer himself…he didn't know the answers. But asking himself if it was worth it was answerable…no, he couldn't risk getting caught and questioned. It would cause the ultimate time paradox. In the end, Harry left without touching the ingredients.

He encountered a similar problem in the Infirmary…floating in front of him when he eased the door open was a group of tightly clustered bottles of potion, and a mass of fresh white bandages. He returned to the Slytherin passages without any work done that night, worried and tense.

* * *

"He didn't take the potion ingredients, Headmaster." Dominick said the next morning. "I know he was there, because there were blood marks on the handle…but nothing inside was touched. Madam Pomfrey discovered the same…the handle of the door was bloody, but nothing was touched."

"Hmmm." Dumbledore said slowly, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. For several long moments he simply stared quietly into space, until Dominick got impatient.

"Headmaster?" The tall man asked. "What shall we do?"

"The boy can't get his nutrients from potions for any longer than two days. He must eat sometimes." The old man said slowly.

"The House Elves, Albus?" Dominick asked.

"No, I don't think so…he would scare them out of their wits."

"Then how?"

"By the secret passages he seems to know so well."

"What do you mean?" Dominick was curious.

"The House Elves store food in a magically cooled storeroom under the kitchens, and as almost every room in Hogwarts has its own secret passage, I think that's where he will show up."

* * *

Dumbledore was right again. The next night Harry could avoid it no longer, and scampered to the Great Hall and into the Anti-chamber, where laid down on his stomach and wiggled like an eel through a hole at the base of the wall…invisible unless you knew it was there. House Elves had to crawl through it…when they knew it was there at all. For Harry, twice as tall as a House Elf and twice as wide, the going was cramped and claustrophobic, but he thought it worth it when he arrived in the cold storeroom and found it empty of elves.

Everything was frozen, but fortunately the stairs led upwards to the back room that the House Elves only entered when cooking, which would be over for the day. There would be food outside thawing for breakfast, and he hurried silently up the stairs and into the back room, scanning it with his eyes.

And there, on the counter, was a package of sliced roast beef and a cold loaf of bread. Dressings he found in a lightly cooled box above the extremely low counter, and if he blew on the beef for a while, he had the makings of a cold roast beef sandwich, which he promptly devoured hungrily, and then made two more, carefully covering his bloody hands with napkins to keep the sandwiches clean. He wrapped one up in a magically cool cloth, and he ate the other there. Then it was down to the storeroom and back up through the narrow chute, and into the anti-chamber off the Great Hall.

He couldn't bear to return to the Slytherin passages again…they made him almost physically ill from the dust and decay. So he crawled under one of the tables and simply sat, basking in the magic around him and the fact that he was comfortably full for the first time in five days.

Unfortunately, he dozed off. And doubly unfortunate was that he forgot to take any blood-pellets.

He woke dizzily to a kick in the ribs.

"Get out of my space, Avery." The voice said irritably, and Harry could just make out the wavering sounds. He couldn't seem to move, his limbs felt horrifically heavy as well as his eyelids.

"I'm not in your space, Nott." Another voice said, waspish.

"Yes you are, I'm kicking you!" Nott said, proving himself by kicking Harry's side again. He rustled irritably but still couldn't get his bearings or open his eyes. Even the pain of the kick seemed muted…on another plane of reality.

"You are not kicking me, Nott." Avery said. "You're kicking yourself and are too stupid to feel it." Nott swore under his breath and sneered at the other boy, before hunkering down and peering underneath the table. There was a horrific scream that nearly burst Harry's eardrums, and Nott shot away from the table.

"It's a body!" He shrieked at the top of his lungs. "There's a dead boy underneath the Slytherin table!"

There was an instant stampede to get away from the table, lots of shouting and screaming and several loud bangs.

Finally, Harry dimly heard someone rushing over to the table from the other side, kneeling beside him and cursing colorfully. Large, warm hands grasped him and pulled him out from under the table, supporting his lolling head.

"He needs a blood replenishing potion!" The person above him shouted, lowering him to the ground and supporting his head with their hands. "Quick, he's dying!"

There was a shuffle, a bang, and a rustle beside him as someone else knelt down.

"Here," They said, their voice much deeper than the first. There were noises in the back round…noises Harry didn't like. Someone was holding a bottle to his lips, and he recognized the sludge of the blood-replenishing potion and struggled to gulp it down. The person giving it to him stroked his throat gently, helping him swallow. He instantly felt better, and was able to open his eyes, but he still couldn't stand up or move much. Above him, darkened in the light of the candles, was that same face that he'd seen on his first day in the past…dark hair and flashing black eyes from a pale face.

"He needs another one!" Snape…for that was who it was, ordered urgently. "He's slipping…better get two." And he was right; Harry felt his eyes slipping closed again. But he couldn't fall asleep now, what was he thinking? He'd already disrupted the timeline, he bet, and he couldn't do it any more. Gulping deep breaths, he propped his elbows underneath him and struggled into a sitting position, fighting the hands that tried to keep him still. "No, wait." Snape said urgently. "You need another potion, you'll die if you don't get it." Harry shook his head weakly, mouthing the word 'no'. He plucked at the chain on his neck, and Snape took the hint, drawing out the tiny glass vial. Harry held up three fingers, momentarily awed by the colorhis handwas…a stained crimson.

Snape shook three pellets out and Harry held out his hand.

"Do you eat them?" He asked, and Harry nodded. Snape lifted his hand and pushed Harry's head back, dropping the pellets that dissolved instantly on his tongue. He instantly staggered to his feet, wells of energy running through him and making him dizzy. "Wait!" Snape gasped, and there was running feet. The teachers were drawing close around him, preventing him from leaving, blocking his way out. He shook his head again, pushing at the wall of bodies around him, fighting the arms that came around him from behind. He struggled hard, and the arms let go. Hands…Professors' hands, grasped at his bloody clothes, but the drying blood made a kind of slime on him that made it impossible for them to hold, and he slipped by them and into the mass of students, who screamed and backed away.

He could see his goal, the door to the dungeons only twenty feet in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Wait, child." Dumbledore said, stepping closer to him. Harry backed away. "We can help you, you're injured and need assistance…" Harry whirled and didn't give him time to continue, dashing for the door and launching himself through it and down the stairs. He sprinted madly until he reached his safe haven…that horrible, dark, dank place that was the only area that he couldn't be followed.

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter didn't satisfy me as much as _The Library._ I mean, I'm fairly happy with it, but even though there was a bit more action in this one, it didn't make me shiver as I wrote it, and that makes it not as good in my opinion. Tell me what you think. By the way, I revised _The Library,_ as I had Harry speaking when he should have been mute. Thanks to _Phoenix 5_ for pointing that out. 


	5. Hangman, Anyone?

**Title:** The Silent Spectre

**Summary:** The days after his all too close confrontation with the entire school.

**Disclaimer:** NOT MINE! Jeesh.

**Note:** Sorry for the delay, but I went away for a week and a half, and I also had school finals, and just a buildup of other stuff. Also, I got a flame! Cats7…a pitiful 13-year-old boy (no offence to 13-year-old boys) who is obsessed with knives and the 'f' word. He didn't even tell me why he disliked it…he only told me it was bullshit. I laughed…I'm still laughing. Anyways, I went to his profile to see if he had a story…bam, he did, and it really deserved a flame. Who am I to ignore the opportunity for revenge? I'm a Slytherin at heart. I mean, really, how can someone be so pathetic? He flamed me back again…and threatened to kill me if he ever got his hands on me…pretty empty threat, if you ask me. I blocked him…he was cluttering up my review space.

* * *

It took days before Harry was brave enough to venture out of Slytherin's secret passages, and he survived those three days on just the one sandwich he had, which he ate the next day so it didn't go bad. He lost more weight he that could ill afford to lose, and became even more hauntingly pale, his face thin, gaunt, and stark white.

It was illness and lack of food that forced him from his haven…illness that came from the haven itself. Harry wasn't sure what it was, but a dark and horrible feeling oozed from the very stones of the castle, spread throughout the underground maze. It originated from the obsidian room with the stark white light, where the mosaic depicting Hogwart's rise and fall was. It was like a leeching feeling…black and ominous and preying on his senses and his mind. He felt like he was going insane, and he had to get out. So he waited until the middle of the night before sneaking out again, and rushing down to the anti-chamber off the great hall, sliding down the slide. He stopped himself before he slid right out into the cold-room, and quietly peered through the hole.

There were no house elves, so he wriggled out and stood up in the icy cold room, shivering, before darting up the steps and peering out into the kitchen. Scanning with his eyes, he spotted a thawing package of ham and a block of cheese. He darted to the basin and quietly washed his hands, listening for house-elves, and then slid a pair of cleaning gloves on that he found beneath the basin before throwing together three sandwiches and wrapping up one of them.

He ate the others quickly before slithering up the chute and coming out again in the anti-chamber and into the Great Hall, careful to make no noise and listening for the sounds of anyone awake. He was being doubly careful, now, for he _could not_ be caught. He felt his guts heave with the thought of a time paradox, where he did something so strange as to get a mention twenty-years into the future. His instincts screamed at him that something bad would happen, a mere sighting where he shouldn't be, being spotted by the wrong person could set off a chain of events so powerful as to change the line of time.

Pettigrew was here, as well as who knows how many other Death Eaters in training…and all would most likely report to their Master off a boy covered in blood that 'haunted' Hogwarts while still living. A boy with a scar on his forehead…

It might have been a Death Eater who sent him here, for all he knew. That meant that Death Eaters know who he was in the future…perhaps even remembered him from their past. Maybe someone else was here, watching him…maybe he died here, and that's the reason they sent him, because they remembered it…

_'Stop it.'_ Harry thought, shaking his head hard. He clenched his eyes closed and held his head in his hands trying to push that thought away. He would get home…he had to.

Taking a deep breath, he scrambled up the Grand Staircase towards the Library, hoping against hope that he would be able to look for a counter to the curse that plagued him. Ne navigated the open halls quickly and quietly, making his way through beams of moonlight that sliced through the dark shadows like glowing silver knives.

He was almost lulled into a sense of security…a false sense, as it happened, for as he flitted through a wide beam of light across the landing of a narrow staircase, the moonlight lit upon his pale face and the blackish blood staining his clothes, causing his appearance to take on that of a painfully thin wraith moving silently across a Hufflepuff couple's line of vision.

The girl screamed like she was being murdered, causing Harry to snap his head up and around, lighting overlarge, haunting green eyes on the pair, before he turned and fled silently away. The girl continued screaming, waking the nearest Professors. Soon, almost the entire school was awake.

-----

_'What am I going to do?'_ Harry thought in despair. _'I cannot…I **cannot** change the timeline…who knows what is at stake. I must find a way home, I must, I must, I must.'_

There was a lump in his throat, constricting his breathing, and his eyes burned with restrained tears. He couldn't hold them back, and soon he was silently crying, on his knees in anguish in the one place he couldn't stand to stay in Hogwarts castle.

-----

"What're we going to do, Albus?" Dominick asked in frustration. The handsome, dark haired man was pacing a trench in Dumbledore's floor.

"We must catch him." Dumbledore said sadly. "It has gone beyond simply wishing to help an injured boy, but he is making the school fearful, even if he does not mean to. I'm afraid we will need to set a trap for him."

"Right, how should we do such a thing?"

As it turned out, they needn't try to trap him…someone else did it for them, just two nights later.

-----

Stumbling wearily towards the Great Hall for yet another trip to the kitchens, Harry was emotionally and physically tired and simply wanting to go home, and was caught quite unawares by the trap. He caught a brief glimpse of entirely too familiar reddish hair…the hair of his captor. It was Adenlin Rolingat, he saw, feeling his heart start to pound. He had no chance to defend himself, however, and everything went black.

When he woke he was disoriented from lack of food and lack of blood, so it took a moment to register where he was. It was dark, for the moon was behind clouds, and there was no floor beneath his feet. He was hanging, he realized, hanging by his wrists from the arching beams that crossed the Great Hall's ceiling, beams colored cloudy and dull, reflecting the night sky. He tilted his head to look down, astonished to see the floor so far away, seeing, in the dull, gloomy light, drops of red-black blood falling silently through the darkness.

He struggled for ages it felt like, desperately trying to pull his wrists from the leather straps that tied them to the wooden crossbeam, but he couldn't break the straps, nor could he get his wand. Nor, he realized with a sinking dismay, could he get his blood pellets.

-----

James Potter woke that morning with his usual cheerful enthusiasm, ready to start the day. Optimistic to a fault, James Potter regarded each day as twenty-four hours of solid playtime…or prank time, as Sirius called it.

Both James and Sirius were early risers, so most of the time they simply let Remus and Peter, who were both extremely heavy sleepers, have an extra half-an-hour before breakfast while they went down to the Great Hall on their own. This morning was no different, two dark haired boys jumping down the stairs two at a time in the cool morning hours before the majority of the Hogwarts students were awake.

They flopped down at the nearly empty Gryffindor table and began to snatch at a plate full of pancakes, talking in low voices about the next prank they were to play. They glanced up when another person sat down at their table, and James got a strange expression on his face, a mix between longing and consternation.

It was Lily Evans, the one girl in the entire school that James and set his attentions on and had been rejected. Miss beauty herself.

"Hi, Evans." Sirius said, giving her a broad grin.

"Black." She replied flatly, and ignored him. The boys did the same, returning to their previous conversation before another disturbance distracted him. Severus Snape, another early riser, strode in from the dungeons with several books in his arms and his bag bulging with even more.

Slowly, the hall began to fill as students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw began to filter in, and there was yet _another_ disturbance, this time from the Ravenclaw table…in the form of a scream.

Sirius glanced up at the other table to see a hysterical girl with tears flowing down her face, pointing…up.

Slowly, feeling dread in their blood, the rest of the hall tilted their heads back and stared up at the emaciated, wraith-like body that hung from the ceiling, over a small stain of blood between the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables.

At first, James thought the boy was dead, that he'd been suicidal and had hung himself. Then James saw that the boy was not hanging from his neck, which was flopped forward and limp like the rest of the body, but from his hands. With a curse, he jumped up and whipped out his wand, screaming at the flabbergasted Professors to fetch Headmaster Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey, while he closed his eyes and concentrated on summoning his broomstick. (Note: I know, I know, kind of cliché, but what can I say?) It took a moment, in which Dumbledore appeared a whirl of baby blue robes, moving faster than a man his age had any right to move, before his broomstick came rushing towards him from the doors.

He grabbed it and swung aboard, just realizing that Sirius had had the same idea and was mounting his own broom just behind him, and kicked off the ground.

"Tell me what he looks like, James." Dumbledore said from the ground, wand drawn but still. James nodded, and both boys soared up towards the ceiling.

"He's conscious, Professor." Sirius exclaimed, and James was surprised to see that it was true. The boy's dull green eyes looked out of his wasted, white face, though they were rather blank and incomprehensive.

"He's not lucid, though." James said, examining the boy's eyes. They followed his movement but no understanding showed. James fought a shiver. Those eyes were disconcerting.

"Cut him down…carefully." Dumbledore said calmly, just as Professor Dominick rushed up from the dungeons. James nodded and maneuvered himself to the boy, reaching out to wrap his arm around the boy's ribs.

It was a mistake…while the boy might not have been able to comprehend much, he surely comprehended the fact that he didn't want to be touched, and the bloodloss was evidently not serious enough to hamper movement, if the boy's thrash and powerful kick was anything to go by. James rolled on his broom, winded.

"Oi!" Sirius yelled, reaching out to grab the boy's arms. The boy twisted violently in his bonds, and attempted to thrash free of his them, making blood trickle down his arms from the wounds on his wrists where the bonds had rubbed the skin away. He kicked again, making Sirius dodge, and they paused, confused.

"Let me do it." A voice from below said. James looked down in astonishment…generally, what he could not do, no one could. He was even more astonished to see that it was Snape…slimy, scrawny Severus Snape, who had voiced the question.

"You?" Sirius exclaimed incredulously. "Why _you?"_

"He came to me, that first night, if you remember." Snape said waspishly. "Perhaps I look familiar to him, and he might let me get him down." James looked at the Headmaster with wide eyes.

"The idea had merit." Dumbledore said absently, staring up at the boy who once more hung limp and still. "James, would you mind lending Severus your broomstick?"

"But Professor…" James started, but quieted when the Headmaster's blue eyes fastened on him, absent of any twinkle. He skimmed down to the ground and dismounted grudgingly, thrusting the broom at the other boy with a scowl. Sirius followed him down, obviously not inclined to help Snape.

Severus didn't seem to expect it, however, and simply mounted and pushed up from the ground to fly up and hover quietly next to the boy. The boy thrashed again, and Snape avoided him, coming closer again when the boy stilled. This time, he only jerked convulsively, and lifted his head weakly. Snape was murmuring something to him, jerking his head towards the bonds in a reassuring way.

A moment later, to James shock, he floated up and grasped the boy around the middle, supporting him with one hand while he raised his wand and severed the straps. The boy slumped, limp and quiet, into Snape's arms. He was still as he was flown back down to the floor, and didn't move even as he was laid out on a stretcher. He seemed resigned for some reason, James thought as he watched. The Headmaster, to James's consternation, put his hand on Snape's shoulder and led him away, following the Matron and the floating stretcher.

* * *

Coming Soon(Er, Sooner, at least): Harry's finally caught...what happens now? What happens to the timeline, the one he swore not to interfere with? Has he changed the flow of the future, or simply become a part of it? All these (some of them, at least) will be answered in Chapter Six: _The Confrontation!_


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